


Three

by Loftec



Series: Wait for it [4]
Category: Shameless (US)
Genre: Future Fic, M/M, Post-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-22
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 10:15:11
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,794
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5493554
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Loftec/pseuds/Loftec
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Easy, Good, Close.</p><p>Three bits of things? This is not a better explanation. Stuff.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Easy

”Easy.”

Mickey leaves the bedroom, steadily giving Ian the finger all the way out the door. 

”Yeah, well, fuck you too, Mickey,” Ian sighs, looking down at the book in his lap and refusing to indulge his partner more than strictly necessary, ignoring him as he moves around the bed and disappears, ”real fucking mature, so happy I’m in a relationship with an actual adult.”

He stares at the words on the page for a second, not able to stop his eyes from losing focus and travel a couple of inches to land on a fold in the duvet, covering his feet. Surprisingly, he doesn’t want to throw, break, tear, doesn’t want to yell or accuse. He’s tired, he wants to sleep, he wants Mickey to stay the fuck out of his way for a while. He wants something easy, for once. One, two seconds of it, he’s not looking for more than that.

He wants to read his fucking book, but he can’t, because his eyes won’t focus and his mind won’t stop skipping, stuck on playing the same track over and over. Stop doing that, you just gotta stop doing that. Stop.

He looks down when his hands snap the book shut in protest, derailing his thoughts for a second. Great, now he’s lost his place. Fucking fantastic. What was the last thing he read? He can’t remember. He tries, but it’s not doing any good. He’s annoyed as all hell and absentmindedly, not for the first time, wishes this wasn’t him. That he wasn’t this asshole who made things difficult, when things should be easy. Fucking finally.

He likes to push, it’s what he does. No, he doesn’t like it, he needs it. He has to push, has to test, wants to fix things. Ninety-nine fucking percent of the time he doesn’t, though, and he just kinda wishes that Mickey would give him something, anything, when he does. 

He opens the book again, tries his luck by letting the pages fall open naturally. He reads a random sentence, from the righthand side, but has no idea if he recognizes it or not so he reads one from the lefthand side. The sentence is infuriatingly sentimental, and unfamiliar, so he carefully closes the book again, decides to find his place again in the morning.

He doesn’t look up when Mickey comes back into the room, keeps his eyes on his hands, fingertips going white as they press into the edges of the book. He doesn’t say anything when Mickey takes off his pants and sits down on his side of the bed. He maybe looks at him through the corner of his eye when Mickey takes off his shirt and rolls his shoulders a little, the shift of his elbow and soft click of metal telling Ian he’s unclasping his watch. Ian doesn’t look away when he bends his head, pausing for a moment before gently placing the watch on the nightstand and switching off the light on his side. Ian doesn’t say anything when Mickey shuffles his body to unmake the bed and lift the covers enough for him to get under them, shifting his weight until he’s halfway to snuggling up against his bedmate.

Ian wants to kick him out, make him sleep on the fucking couch. The urge is unusual and uncomfortable. He’s not that kinda guy, doesn’t want to be. He does nothing when Mickey turns on his side, turns his back to him.

Ian wants to push, shove, start something. He wants to move on, because he thinks, he knows that there isn’t anything left that Mickey hasn’t given him.

He’s two seconds away from apologizing when Mickey speaks, low and calm.

”Did we just have a fight about the fucking dishes?” he asks, not a trace of resentment left in there.

Ian huffs and silently marvels at the tension unlocking throughout his body from only hearing Mickey talk to him in that voice; the one like a blank canvas, lacking the layers of attitude and distance he feels he needs with other people. ”Yeah, guess we did.”

”Cool,” Mickey says and Ian definitely looks at him now, tries to figure out the side of his face, the rise and fall of his shoulder, his eyes closing. ”I’ll do ’em in the morning, easy.”

Ian puts his book away and turns off his bedside lamp. He snorts at Mickey’s low grumbling when he makes the bed move too much, shifting and re-shifting to stretch out under the covers, reaching out to grab on to Mickey, attach himself to his back. Mouth and nose against his neck, breathing him in.

Easy.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> aka  
> Short bits of lovely things?  
> aka  
> The arguments compilation
> 
> My native tongue has a saying, that beloved child has many names. So does fic that abandons a previously linear narrative to indulge in fluff and (spoiler!) explicit sex that is neither particularly fluffy or sexy, I suppose. Happy holidays.


	2. Good

”Good.”

”You don’t think I know what I did to you?” Ian can’t remember seeing Mickey this furious before, not even when he had every cause to be, every reason. He’s barely keeping his tone level, now, eyes piercing, blazing. ”You don’t think I fucking loved it? Pushing you, breakin’ you, doin’ my fucking worst and watch you come back for more?”

”Things were different-,” Ian starts and clenches his jaw over the rest of his sentence when Mickey snorts, isn’t having it, ”I got it, alright? Always got it.”

”No,” Mickey takes a couple of steps back, points at him, ”you never fucking got it, Gallagher.”

Ian laughs, can’t fucking help it even with Mickey looking at him like the sound’s physically hurting him. ”Yeah, okay, sure, no. I don’t get you at all, Mick. You’re a great fucking mystery, congratulations.”

Mickey shakes his head, says nothing. Few things aggravate Ian more than that, the asshole fucking knows it.

”I know you,” he seethes, and now he’s the one pointing, accusing, ”I knew you then, know you now. Feel guilty about shit all you like Mick, but don’t you fucking dare put that on me. Plenty of other things to choose from if you wanna hate me, man, go ahead.”

Mickey sighs and runs a hand over his eyes, angling himself away some, other hand on his hips. He looks about ready to give up and it triggers something in Ian he wouldn’t know how to stop even if he could. Panic, sheer and blinding, crawling across his skin and moulding through his mind.

”You wanna give up, huh?” he can hear himself sneer, fear translating into spiteful anger somewhere in the back of his throat. ”Wanna leave? Fucking leave.”

He doesn’t get a reply, not so much as a quick glance. He gets in close, real close, forces Mickey to face him by shoving himself in there, breaking into his line of sight and holding on to it. Mickey always did have a hard time looking away. Ian knows what that means, knows it. Wants to hear it.

”You wanna quit, Mick?” he breathes, quick and hot, feels it bounce off Mickey’s mouth, so close, ”be a fucking man and just fucking do it.”

He hates the words, hates the sound of them coming out of him. And he’s all the way in their bedroom, door slammed behind him and hands deep in his hair, before he lets go of the breath he’s been holding on to, realizes what he’s done. Again. Pushing, shoving, always got an ultimatum, keeps telling Mickey to do the things he doesn’t want him to do. 

”Fuck,” he tells the empty room, before he sits down on the bed and leans his forehead in the palms of his hands. Wishes Mickey would follow him, sit down next to him, stop the tears gathering in the corners of his eyes.

He won’t though, never does. Ian sniffs and quickly wipes at the wetness, not interested in sitting there in the dark, weeping over the never-ending emotional chaos of his relationship with Mickey. No, he doesn’t want to cry about it, doesn’t want to fight about it either, he realizes. Doesn’t ever want to go without it again, and that sentiment is far from news.

He breathes, focused and slow. He listens, tries to find where Mickey is. The creak of that one floorboard by the window, soft steps, maybe towards the door. No, the kitchen nook, the buzzing of the fridge increasing with the door being held open. Closed again almost immediately. The scrape of a chair against the kitchen’s worn out linoleum carpet.

Ian can feel himself slowly relax. It’s not ideal, but Mickey’s still in the apartment, still within reach. Still his. A new sound, closer, sharper, has Ian sitting to attention, hands falling to his sides as he strains his ears to make out what it means. There’s a soft grind of metal, a ruffle of fabric, the clunk of wood hitting the plaster wall in the hallway. Panic once again coursing through him, Ian gets up and puts his hands to the closed door, one on the handle, one flat against the plastic veneer.

When he opens the door Mickey’s on the other side, back bent, face turned. Ian surveys his movements carefully as Mickey pulls on his shoes without bothering to lace them and straightens himself out, absentmindedly patting at his pockets.

”Don’t-,” Ian sighs, crossing his arms over his chest and looking away when Mickey glares up at him, ”please don’t leave.”

Mickey snorts loudly, his attention on his hands as they ruffle through his pockets.

”Ain’t leaving, Ian,” he mutters, holding up his battered pack of smokes, lighter tucked in next to it, ”fucking idiot, thinkin’ I could.”

”Don’t leave,” Ian insists, and can’t help a small smile when Mickey looks at him, eyebrows raised high, ”stay.”

”You’re such a dick,” he sighs, but not without reluctantly returning the smile. Ian shrugs and steps up to him, gets well into his space again, knows how Mickey feels about that. Knows that he’ll never stop fighting the urge to run.

Mickey stares up into his eyes, now, never could look away. Mouth falling open as if to say something, or maybe just to breathe. Ian leans his forehead against Mickey’s, shuts his eyes for a moment. Then he smiles and takes half a step back, closing his hand over Mickey’s and taking the cigarettes from him.

Not looking back he walks into the small living room, fishing out a cigarette and putting it to his lips, lighting it up as he slumps down on the couch.

”We’re never gonna get that deposit back,” Mickey points out, leaving his shoes and coat in the hallway before following Ian’s lead, sitting down next to him and taking the offered cigarette from him, ”thanks.”

”You’re looking to move anytime soon?” Ian asks, cautiously teasing, testing.

”You wanna live in this shithole forever?” Mickey questions around the cigarette, smoke billowing out with his words. ”Kitchen’s in the fucking living room, Ian, the water pressure is so bad it’s basically runnin’ backwards, an’ the ancient ballsack upstairs is a homophobic bigot.”

”Mr Thompson?” Ian asks, smiling when Mickey huffs in response and sucks at his cigarette, blowing the smoke out the corner of his mouth, ”don’t think so, Mick, pretty sure it’s just you he’s afraid of.”

”Whatever,” Mickey sinks down deeper into his seat, shoulder pressing against Ian’s, ”you knew this wasn’t gonna be forever when we moved in, don’t know why you’re bitching about it now.”

Ian doesn’t answer, but sinks down deeper too, finds Mickey’s hand with his own, tangles them and rests them on Mickey’s thigh. Relishes in the feeling of Mickey’s blunt thumbnail worrying softly against his skin.

”South Shore,” he eventually suggests, ”not too fucking fancy, okay prices. Closer commute for you.”

”South Shore,” Mickey tries it out, nodding thoughtfully, taking the cigarette from his lips and bending forward to reach the coffee cup on the table in front of them, tapping some of the burnt out ashes into it, his grip on Ian’s hand tightening. Loosening once more when he falls back against the couch, against Ian’s shoulder.

”You know I don’t-,” Ian starts, hesitating for a second, feeling more than hearing Mickey’s deeply exhausted sigh, ”don’t fucking care about any of it, right?”

”Think you should care,” Mickey mumbles, cigarette moving with his lips.

”Things were the way they were,” Ian says, struggles to keep his voice even, ”forgave you a long time ago, as you did me.”

Mickey bends his head some and gingerly takes the cigarette between two fingers, embers angled away from his face as he scratches with his thumb against his eyebrow. Ian sees his whole life in that gesture, his home.

”You did, right?” Ian breathes, not even sure if Mickey can hear him his voice is so reluctant to form the words.

Mickey shakes his head, the thumb still scratching lightly against Ian’s hand stalling for a second before smoothing out and gently rubbing small circles over the same patch of skin, sensitive and tingling in the wake of his ministrations.

”Long fucking time ago, Ian,” he says, ”wouldn’t have looked you up if I hadn’t. If I wasn’t sure.”

Ian nods, and he knows what he wants to say but the words are buried so very deep within him. Struggles and struggles to expose himself, to share, to be vulnerable. Even with Mickey, even now. 

”I panic,” Ian swallows, determined to get this out now when he isn’t so tongue-tied by fear, ”I think you want out and it’s like I can’t reason. I hear you, Mick, I know you’re not leaving, know you’re sure. I’m sorry- I don’t- if I don’t seem like I trust ya.”

”Don’t worry about it,” Mickey shrugs, the cigarette back between his lips, dipping slightly with his words. Ian wants to protest, wants to insist that he does worry, they should probably worry. ”Ain’t such a great fucking mystery yourself, Ian.”

”Oh, you think so?” Ian smiles, eyes on Mickey’s slightly bent profile.

”Know so,” Mickey sucks at the cigarette and holds on to it when he rests his hand on his knee, thumbs at the filter. Ian keeps his eyes on him, on the tip of his tongue darting out before he bites at his bottom lip, sifting smoke through the gap between his front teeth. ”Know you.”

Ian huffs and leans his head on Mickey’s shoulder, slumping down further with the motion. When his actions meet no immediate protestation, he turns his face against Mickey, presses his nose against his neck, right below his jaw. Breathes in deep, shaky on the exhale. Takes care to remind himself that no one knows him better than Mickey, that he can be understood even when he can’t explain.

”You still upset with me,” he asks, mouthing against Mickey’s skin, smiling against the goosebumps creeping up his neck, ”or you gonna let me kiss you right now?”

”If there’s a way to stop you,” Mickey grumbles, ”I sure as fuck haven’t figured it out yet.”

Ian laughs and it feels so fucking good, keeps his eyes on the side of Mickey’s victorious grin as he leans forward again, Ian resting his head back against the couch. Mickey drops the butt of the cigarette into the cup, the low fizz of the embers going out telling that there’s still some left in there from this morning’s coffee. When he leans back he turns to look at Ian, expectantly, pleased when Ian picks up his free hand and puts it to his cheek. Thumb tracing the side of his nose and the line under his eye.

”Good,” Ian says and picks his head up to fit himself against Mickey, smile against his lips when he feels fingertips grasping at his elbow, trailing through the hairs on his arm, shifting to settle against the back of his neck. 

Good.

 

 

.


	3. Close

”Close.”

Mickey shuts his eyes and rests his head back against the pillow. He tries to even out his breathing, puts a hand to his eyes in useless effort to block everything out. His other hand’s clenching at Ian’s neck, probably a bit too hard. Ian’s grunting and working on top of him, filling him up, thighs smacking into him, chest heavy on him. Mouth wet and eager against his neck.

It’s not working for him. It should, but it really isn’t. His dick lost all interest about five minutes ago and the rest of him is thrust by thrust inched steadily closer to a full blown panic attack. He can’t stand it, how close Ian is, how he’s everywhere; his dick, his scent, his mouth, the sounds he’s making, the earnestness in his eyes when he looks at him. Faces so goddamned close Mickey forgets how to breathe. It doesn’t help.

Ian’s not looking at him now, thank fuck, doesn’t notice his dwindled interest and oncoming anxiety. It’s been six days since he got to land his eyes on Ian again, drink in the long-lost sight of him. It’s been five days of this; awkwardly scheduled dinners and painfully sincere lovemaking before silently falling asleep next to each other. It’s what he wanted, he wanted Ian back, wanted their life back. And it’s a fuckton better than prison, better than _not_ being with Ian. 

But it’s also getting increasingly unbearable. All of it; the tense conversation, the weight of their feelings, the strangely mechanical and instantly intimate sex. He feels like they’re trying too hard, too fucking fast, and he doesn’t know how to slow it down without stopping completely. Doesn’t want to take anything away from Ian. Mickey swallows convulsively when Ian lets go of his knee, his leg easing down Ian’s side and most likely not doing a whole lot to improve the angle for him, his thrusts getting shallow. 

Mickey’s two seconds away from pushing Ian off of him, get some distance, get out of the clammy bed, when the mouth drops from his neck and Ian suddenly stills on top of him.

”Okay?” he says when Ian wordlessly wraps his arms around him, digs his hands down between the mattress and Mickey’s back, clings himself to Mickey as close as he possibly can. His breath hot and irregular against his neck when Ian presses his nose there, his face, eyelashes tickling Mickey’s skin he’s so close. All of Mickey’s budding panic vanishes in an instant with the shudder rippling through Ian’s body, replaced entirely by genuine concern. So instead of pushing Ian away he moves the hand still covering his eyes to place it gently on Ian’s strong back, holding him close. His other hand loosening its tight grip on his neck, fingers gently scratching through the short hairs there.

”Okay,” he repeats, bending his knees and pressing his thighs closer against Ian’s hips, locks him in best he can, ”sure, yeah, no problem, I got you.”

Ian sighs heavily against his neck but doesn’t move.

”Don’t have to do this, man,” he says, hand moving up and down Ian’s back, ”can fucking spoon all night or whatever, leave it at that.”

Ian groans, frustrated, but at least it’s something.

”But you gotta-,” Mickey hesitates, never had a problem verbalizing any of this shit before when it was just fucking, ”you gotta clear the exit first.”

For a brief moment, Ian’s perfectly still on top of him, but then he’s shaking with suppressed laughter and he’s slowly dislodging his arms from under Mickey. Getting up on one elbow to make some space he carefully eases himself out, huffing out a laugh against the side of Mickey’s face.

”Can’t believe you just said that, such a fucking dork,” he chuckles, grin wider and easier than Mickey’s seen it in days when he rests his hips back down on Mickey’s and his head on his hand so he can face him, talk to him. But his smile falters when his eyes roam Mickey’s, when he ducks his head and rests the side of his face against Mickey’s shoulder.

”Love you so fucking much, you know that?” He mumbles, never liked saying it. ”I’m sorry.”

”Ey,” Mickey shrugs his shoulder to get Ian to look at him again, ”I ain’t.”

There’s that small, private, crooked smile he’s been waiting for. His smile. Mickey feels intensely relieved all of a sudden, not realizing before how taxing it’s been to be so convinced that they weren’t on the same page. That Ian was enjoying himself in this new thing they were doing when Mickey felt about ready to jump ship, felt like he was suffocating. He can tell now, clear as day, that Ian’s feeling it too. Tries too hard for them to be something they’re not. Like they don’t trust themselves to get it right this time either.

”We might have fucked up most things, Ian,” he says, and can’t help his hand leaving Ian’s neck to tenderly touch his cheek, brush the strand of hair falling down his eyes out of the way, ”but this here, this we were always good at. I’m not worried.”

”Yeah?” Mickey does not miss the way Ian grounds his hips down a little, matching the well familiar dirty twist to his lips. This dumbass guy of his, he’s nothing short of amazing. The amount of stupid crap they have to deal with at every step of the way to get anywhere, to get to this. It would concern him if he wasn’t doing it with Ian, if he didn’t know how strong they are. He knows this, needs to remember to remind himself of this.

”Yeah,” he breathes, feels the keen rekindling of his interest, like it’s seven years ago and Ian only has to look at him to get him going, ”how about I get on my knees, and you just-”

Ian’s close again, so close, big fucking intense eyes all Mickey can see.

”Give it to me,” he croaks, hand grabbing firmly at Ian’s ass, grounding him, ”hard, fast.”

His words come out in a mumble, lips grazing against Ian’s with every syllable.

”Work our way up to the-,” he sighs into Ian’s parted lips with another firm roll of the hips, ”the soul-tangling, sincere lovemaking.”

”Think I can do that,” Ian nods, quickly, nose bumping against Mickey’s. Smile wide and wicked when he grabs Mickey by the hips and lifts off him long enough to flip him around. Press heavily against his back.

It isn’t the best they’ve ever had, but it’s old, it’s new, it’s good. They laugh and talk after, really fucking talk, Ian falling asleep mid-sentence around two in the morning, Mickey spending the last of his energy and the following ten minutes committing every line of his sleeping face to memory. Something inside him clenching in fear and cringing in embarrassment, remembering all the nights in the can when he’d tried to imagine it. Wished he could see it.

Close.

 

 

.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't know what to say about this. I didn't necessarily have any intention to write it, but bloody Nora it was very insistent. So, you know. Happy merry and all that. <3


End file.
